Barric 'Stone Guard' was a man of action, not abstract thought. The Master's poetic mandate, found at the Shrine of Lost Socks (a location he still found deeply perplexing for a shadow organization's dead drop), had been a trial for his literal mind. But he'd extracted what he believed were concrete objectives: "Serpent Coils in Halls of Gold" – deal with financial corruption. "Walls of Pride, on Dust They Stand" – fix the damn walls.
He decided to start with the walls. It was tangible. You could hit a wall with a hammer; you couldn't hit a 'serpent of avarice' without a lot more intelligence, which he assumed the other Acolyte, the clever perceptive one, was handling.
So it was that two days later, Barric found himself at a particularly dilapidated section of the Old North Wall, near the very gatehouse where he'd witnessed rampant bribery. He'd "strategically acquired" a sack of quick-setting mortar, a sturdy trowel, and a half-dozen good quality bricks from a poorly guarded civic works depot near the docks. The Path, he reasoned, would approve of resourcefulness in service of shoring up Veridia's crumbling integrity.
He set to work with grim determination, chipping away loose, ancient mortar and expertly laying fresh bricks. He was, after all, a soldier; basic fortification repair was not beyond him.
"Hmph. 'Foundations of dust,' indeed," he muttered, slapping mortar onto a brick with more force than strictly necessary. "More like foundations of neglect and thievery."
A passing carter, his vehicle laden with suspiciously unstamped wine barrels, slowed his ox to stare. "Oi, friend! What're you doin' there? The Watch ain't paid you to patch their laziness, have they?"
Barric straightened, fixing the carter with a stony gaze. "I walk the Crimson Path," he rumbled, a phrase he'd decided sounded suitably official. "We address… foundational weaknesses. Where pride has… eroded." He thought that captured the spirit of the poem rather well.
The carter blinked, then nervously whipped his ox. "Right then. Good… good luck with the… eroding pride, friend." He hurried off, clearly deciding Barric was several bricks short of a full load himself.
Barric ignored him, returning to his work. He was making a difference. One well-laid brick at a time. The Master would surely be pleased with this practical application of his poetic wisdom. It was certainly more useful than trying to figure out what a three-legged raven had to do with anything.
***
Zero, meanwhile, was not pleased. He was, in fact, on the verge of a complete nervous collapse, a state rapidly becoming his default. He'd been lurking near a news-crier's stand in a busy market square (for 'ambient intelligence gathering,' he told himself, not because he was too scared to go back to his room), when he heard the latest sensation:
"Mad 'Bleeding Eye' Cultist Strikes Again! Tri-Market Square in Uproar! Indigo-Haired Herald of Doom Taunts City Watch! Citizens Fear Shadowy Cabal!"
Zero nearly choked on his stale bread roll. His Bleeding Eye? His cool, enigmatic symbol of shadow and mystique? Now associated with an "Indigo-Haired Herald of Doom" (Ren, it had to be Ren!) and a "Shadowy Cabal" that apparently caused public uproars? This was a public relations nightmare!
"This is… suboptimal," he whispered to a nearby pigeon, which promptly flew away. The Crimson Path was meant to be subtle, mysterious, operating from the deepest shadows! Not… a public nuisance with a penchant for fruit-throwing and bad graffiti.
He scurried back to his room, his mind racing. The Bleeding Eye symbol was clearly compromised. Too aggressive. Too… noticeable. He needed a new symbol for the Path. Something more discreet. More… thoughtfully enigmatic.
He spent the next hour frantically sketching. He tried a single, crimson teardrop (too mournful). A stylized shadow (looked like a blob). A cryptic arrangement of lines (looked like he'd dropped his quill).
Finally, inspiration struck. A simple, elegant crimson dot. Yes! The 'Crimson Point.' It was subtle. Minimalist. It could represent a focused intent, a single point of truth in a universe of chaos, the beginning and the end! And most importantly, it was easy to draw and unlikely to cause city-wide panic.
"Perfect!" he declared to his empty room. "Phase one: rebrand! I'll have to inform the Acolytes immediately via the Shrine of Lost Socks. A new Masterly Mandate on correct Path iconography is essential for operational security!" He just hoped they wouldn't ask why the all-knowing Master was suddenly changing the core symbol of their ancient, timeless order.
***
Investigator Gregor meticulously examined the alley wall where Ren had last scrawled his crude Bleeding Eye during the Tri-Market Square incident. The charcoal was cheap, the lines hasty, but the core design – the lopsided eye, the jagged tear – was consistent with the other sites.
"He's bold, I'll give him that," Gregor muttered to one of his men, Sergeant Harlen. "And fast. But not invisible." He held up the strip of indigo-dyed cloth they'd recovered. "This dye is distinctive. Not the common tradesman's indigo. It's richer, more vibrant. Possibly imported, or from a specialist."
"The Dyers' Guild, Commander?" Harlen suggested. "Master Borin is still screaming for this 'Indigo Ren's' head."
"Borin screams if a pigeon soils his stoop," Gregor said dismissively. "But the dye is a lead. And the boy's public declaration… 'The Crimson Path sees all! The Bleeding Eye weeps for your ignorance!' He's not just a vandal; he's a true believer in… something."
His informants were already working on tracing the source of that specific indigo dye. And the name 'Crimson Path'… it was new. Commander Marius's concerns about resurgent cults suddenly felt less abstract. Gregor had initially suspected a lone, disturbed youth. Now, he was starting to consider the possibility that Indigo Ren, for all his chaotic energy, might indeed be the herald for something more organized, however unhinged. His next step was to visit the Scribes' Office and the Hall of Records. If there was any historical precedent for a 'Crimson Path' or this specific 'Bleeding Eye' variant, he needed to know.
***
Anya sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of her tiny, hidden room near the Scribe's Quarter, Zero's allegorical poem spread before her. She had been meditating on its meaning for days, her mind sifting through its dense, symbolic language.
"The Serpent Coils in Halls of Gold, Where Scales of Trust are Falsely Sold." This clearly referred to the corruption within the Merchant Guilds, the domain of Elder Theron and Jax. Her initial investigation had been validated by the Master's poetic insight.
"The Walls of Pride, on Dust They Stand." This was broader. It spoke of societal structures, perhaps Veridia's ruling council, its legal system, even the City Watch itself – institutions whose proud facades concealed internal decay and compromised foundations. This aligned with the Master's directive to find where the true shadow festers, beyond mere smuggling.
"While Crimson Tears Weep O'er the Land." The Path's mission, then, was to bear witness to this decay, to perhaps even act as a catalyst for its cleansing, its tears a symbol of sorrow for the city's lost integrity.
The poem wasn't a set of direct orders, Anya realized. It was a philosophical framework, a way of seeing. The Master wasn't just assigning tasks; he was cultivating her perception, guiding her to understand the deeper currents of Veridia's sickness. Her role was not just to report on specific instances of corruption, but to understand the systemic nature of the shadow.
She decided her next course of action. She would continue to observe the Merchant Guilds, but she would also broaden her focus to the other "Halls of Gold" and "Walls of Pride" – the courts, the Citadel, the influential noble houses. She needed to see how the serpent's coils interconnected, how the rot in one foundation weakened others. The Master had given her a lens, and she would use it to dissect the city's soul. She just hoped he would soon provide a new directive via the Shrine of Lost Socks; this contemplative phase was insightful, but her sword arm grew restless.